


Unsung Verse

by NightHerald



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Exhibitionism, Incest, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, Parent/Child Incest, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-28
Updated: 2015-08-28
Packaged: 2018-04-17 18:17:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4676564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NightHerald/pseuds/NightHerald
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His father comes to him sometimes, when the night is quiet and still.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unsung Verse

**Author's Note:**

> I'm still new to writing fanfic, so feedback would be appreciated.

His father comes to him sometimes, when the night is quiet and still.

Like a familiar apparition that haunts his lonely hours, he slips into his son's chambers, unannounced, but anticipated all the same. Immediately, Legolas' attention is captured. They do not speak on these nights, nor do they speak of them afterward. Their silence weaves a veil through which reality is dimmed; they are as children covering their eyes against their own misbehavior, cowering in shame before their shadows.

Thranduil stands before the closed door, bright in the gloom, and locks it behind his back. There is a fragility in his bearing, a tentative plea that reveals more of himself than his carefully chosen words could convey. Legolas regards him for a moment from his seat at the writing table. The quill in his hand presses down hard enough to tear a hole in the parchment, staining the pale wood beneath with a spreading blotch of ink. Slowly, he places the quill in it's holder and stands.

Not taking his eyes off his father, Legolas walks to the bed, unlacing the ties of his tunic as he goes. Thranduil is still but for the turning of his head as he keeps him in view. Legolas sits down and leans back on his hands, his tunic gaping open at the neck to reveal the invitation of his skin. Beneath his cool facade, his heart is pounding. His father stares, transfixed as he was the first time, and moves to stand in front of a chair whose position betrays the familiarity of their routine.

A single sconce on the wall above him throws heavy shadows across the room that tremble like reaching fingers. Thranduil removes his robe, letting it slide to the floor in a cascade of rubescent silver. Legolas watches with rapt interest as he undresses, his eyes breaking contact with his father's to slide over every bit of exposed skin as it's revealed to him. He soon stands nude within the warm light of the sconce, and he sits down on the chair. Quite deliberately, he crosses his legs and folds his hands in his lap, and when Legolas lifts his gaze Thranduil tilts his chin up in a silent request to proceed. Fighting an amused smirk that threatens to spoil his display, Legolas pulls off his tunic, every motion elegant in a way it wouldn't be if he were alone, and he watches as Thranduil's pupils pool like spilled ink in his eyes.

Legolas lies back on the bed and lifts his hips to slide his leggings down his thighs, and the sudden cool air on his privates sends a shiver of arousal through his body, causing his member to throb. He spreads his legs wide to grant his father the view denied to him. His cock is already fully erect and rests against his belly, but instead of blushing at the sight of himself so affected as he had in the early days, he runs a hand down his body, letting his fingertips brush along his length as they pass. He inhales at that feathery touch, and he thinks he can feel the intensity that makes mortals so uncomfortable under an elven stare.

Thranduil meets his gaze and uncrosses his legs, and Legolas raises his head to get a better view. Already he is half hard and, as Legolas continues to trail his hands lightly over his own skin, his cock jerks upright in intervals until it stands proudly at it's full girth. Legolas' own cock twitches in response. He stares at his father greedily, drinking in the sight he knows he can never touch. Thranduil grips himself in his stead, moves his hand down until the rosy head of him emerges from the foreskin. He rubs his index finger over the slit, traces the head, then dips it beneath the foreskin and circles it around. Legolas aches at the sight, and he moves to take his own cock in hand, but halts. He shifts his position until he's lying with his head on the pillow, his body perpendicular to Thranduil to give him the best view of both his body and face. He raises himself slightly to tug his hair out from beneath him so it doesn't pull, flicking a hand through it so it's splayed sensuously over the pillow.

Thranduil's eyes roam appreciatively over his body, and he lifts a hand to his mouth and licks his fingers one by one, trails his tongue over his palm. He wraps his hand around his cock and works it up and down it's length until it is glistening with saliva. Legolas can feel his pulse thrumming in his own cock. He reaches over to the bedside table and pulls a small vial from the drawer. The stopper clatters jarringly when he tosses it back in the drawer, and the sudden sound causes his heart to leap in his chest. He takes a breath, avoiding his father's eyes, and pours the fragrant oil over his chest and belly. It's chilled from the night, and his nipples harden as the liquid slips over them. He sucks a hissing breath between his teeth, and pinches one nipple, circles the nub with his fingers. His skin gleams in the candlelight, and the lavender's aroma helps him relax. The vial makes no sound when he places it on the table. He spreads the oil over his body with both hands, working his way down, until _finally_ he wraps a hand around his cock. Keenly aware of his captive audience, he arches into his touch, lets a wanton moan escape his throat. The slick slide of his palm over his cock is like flint on steel, sparking a fire that quickly consumes his body.

He hears Thranduil sigh harshly, and realizes he let his eyes go unfocused. He sharpens his gaze to see his father pulling at his cock in slow languid movements, his legs spread obscenely wide as he sprawls in the chair. Legolas groans, runs his other hand down to squeeze his bollocks. His skin prickles with sweat, and he pants shamelessly as he thrusts up into his hand. For a moment he stills, and presses two fingers against the sensitive spot between his bollocks and anus. Mindlessly he undulates his hips against the sensation, his eyes losing focus once more.

Their panting, the wet sounds, the occasional cry; all these things burn in Legolas' ears. His usually silent chambers are suffused with the sounds of their lechery. Legolas thinks of elven ears pressed to the door; but instead of evoking paranoia, as it should, the thought sends a spike of arousal through him. He groans and throws his head back against the pillow. He has truly become debauched.

He looks again to his father. Thranduil's lips are now rosy from his arousal, and Legolas wants so badly to kiss them in this moment that he whimpers. So close are they to each other, but they must not touch lest their souls bind together too tightly to be untangled. The distance between them blurs, and Legolas clenches his eyes shut against the sudden tears. He loses himself in his pleasure, as he touches himself and writhes and cries out with an inexorable passion much like weeping.

Legolas climaxes first, as always. He moans and opens his eyes, looking to his father as orgasm wracks his body. His face twists into a helpless and needy expression he would be humiliated to show at any other moment; but now he calls out to his father in a desperate whisper, pleading for he knows not what. His hand clutches the coverlet to prevent himself from reaching for what he can never have.

When the tremors have passed he lies still, savoring the simple feel of air in his lungs. He swallows against the dryness of his throat, and heat rises in his cheeks to remember his frantic words. Tears tickle his skin and dampen his hair; Legolas knows Thranduil must have already noticed them, so he makes no effort to wipe them away. His father says nothing.

Legolas keeps a hand on his soft cock, idly stroking it; shudders chase each other up and down his body from over stimulation. He is aware of every movement of his body, and how it must look to Thranduil – the rise and fall of his chest, the slide of his legs over the coverlet. Now that his own pleasure is sated, Legolas looks at his father, studies him – the way his eyes slide along his body, but always return to his face; the hitch in his breathing when Legolas writhes under his own hand; the way his hips begin to buck ever so slightly. Soon Thranduil is spilling onto his hand and thighs in thick spurts, his eyes fluttering closed and a deep moan escaping his throat that makes Legolas' body heat all over again. He slumps against the back of the chair, panting harshly, his eyes squeezed shut, and Legolas tries to find satisfaction in the sight but he can't when Thranduil seems so defeated.

Suddenly Legolas can't bear to look at his father. He turns his head away and watches the light of the sconce stutter across the ceiling. There is silence for a few moments, then the creak of wood and the soft rustling of cloth as Thranduil dresses.

His father departs as silently as he came, leaving behind only the lingering scent of his lust to indicate he was ever there at all.

 


End file.
